Calliope hesitated. Talking to the last stranger on the side of the road had made her feel like a rag doll, toxic on the floor of a defective fallout shelter. She’d felt unstable. Or insane.

She didn’t need insanity, she needed answers.

But as she approached the scooter, she caught the young woman’s eyes, cerulean and lucid, the kind of natural response that implied I’m normal and stranded. I’m so glad you came along. Calliope stopped, shifted to park, and glanced back at Eunjoo, who was also staring at the woman. “Should we help her?” Calliope asked, aware she was ridiculous, asking advice of the six-year-old.

“Yep. We need her,” Eunjoo answered, matter-of-factly, startling Calliope.

“Why do we need her?”

“She’ll help us later.”

Calliope smiled, bemused. Still, it would be useful to travel with another woman, an ally in this mess. Staring at the white girl, Calliope’s hand on the locked car door, she imagined prehistoric people hunting and gathering across North America, what it might have been like when the last ice age hit, when those who survived did so by sharing resources and knowledge. No fossil record supported violence until resources became sparse, much later. Violence was taught. The natural instinct in crisis, evolved into the genes, was help each other.

Calliope opened the door. “Hey there,” she called as she padded out of her car. “Need some help?”

“Oh my God, you’re the first normal person I’ve seen all morning.” She embraced Calliope in an awkward sideways hug, the skinny girl making Calliope feel even more massive, her belly bloating between them. “Look at you, momma,” she said, laughing. “You’re about to pop.”

Calliope stiffened, defensive. “It’s twins,” she responded, pulling away from the white girl’s embrace.

“Picked a hell of a time to be pregnant though, didn’t you? In this nightmare.”

Calliope breathed a sigh of relief, glad the white girl had acknowledged aloud that something horrible was happening. She extended her hand, introduced herself as Calliope Santiago, omitting the “Dr.” title she usually prided herself in affirming.

“Amy Denver,” the white girl said, shaking her hand.

Calliope was glad to have something to call her other than the white girl.

Amy said, “Seriously, momma. Do you know what’s happening? Where everyone went?”

Calliope shook her head. “My family’s gone, my friend is dead, and you’re the first person I’ve met tonight who isn’t insane. Where are you coming from?”

“Santa Fe. I’m a student at the art institute. I mean, I was. Now I’m a survivor on Lost, waiting for the polar bears. I’m just glad you’re not a zombie.”

“What happened up in Santa Fe? Same as here?”

“Same, yeah. Disaster scene from a zombie apocalypse. Except instead of zombies, it’s just no one. Kind of freakier this way. It’s a ghost town, only we’re the ghosts …”